


Working Title: "Outdated definition"

by Terrona_fuori_sede



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, English is not even my mother tongue what am I doing, Gen, Investigative Journalism, Lois Lane and Harvey Dent working together? It's more likely than you think, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Recovery, Trust Issues, Unlikely partnership blossoms into an even more unlikely friendship, chemical burns, unlikely friendship, where the hell did all this even come from
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrona_fuori_sede/pseuds/Terrona_fuori_sede
Summary: "In a news that to many might come as a shock, the Prosecutor's Office has announced this morning that Gotham's top prosecutor and elected official Harvey Dent has no intention of stepping down from his role as District Attorney. As many of you know, just four months ago Dent was violently assaulted in what the police described as an "attack unprecedented in its violence and cruelty". Dent suffered extensive chemical burns and has only recently been transferred from Gotham's General Burn Unit. Many wonder, is Dent fit to continue his second run as D.A. , or will this ordeal finally prove too much for Gotham's white knight?"Harvey Dent tries to be a good man. What Harvey Dent is, is a functioning alcoholic who has been hiding his past, his addiction, and mental illness for over fifteen years. But, as investigative journalist Lois Lane will find out, some truths remain hidden for a reason.
Relationships: Clark Kent & Lois Lane & James "Jimmy" Olsen, Harvey Dent & Bruce Wayne, Lois Lane & Harvey Dent
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. Introduction: Una persona scomoda

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is what happens when someone spends too much time analyzing characterization and wondering “what if”. What if those jackasses at DC decided that maybe “crazy” doesn’t necessarily mean “evil” and that mentally ill people deserve a fulfilling life at the best of their capacity instead of being used for stale “we sure do live in a society” metaphors.  
> What if Harvey Dent didn’t end up being a cautionary tale for Batman and Commissioner Gordon, but managed to recover after his scarring. What if instead of unleashing his "insane" side, his injury led him to get the medical attention that he needed. What if he kept practicing law as a DA, armed with the knowledge that it’s not a coin toss that decides, it’s those who the rigged the game.

District Attorney Harvey Dent was to be made an example of. That much was sure. And truth to be told, it was no one’s fault but his. Had he stayed in his place, resorting to such drastic measures wouldn’t have been necessary.

See, being from an well respected old money family, there were certain...expectations of Harvey. He could have kept playing his part, the one that had been designed for him since birth: the handsome philanthropist, with a mouth full of perfect white teeth and empty platitudes. He knew the rules. He had studied them. He had had his whole life to observe them carefully. Give to charity to an association sporting your family name, to be emblazoned on plaques in museum wings, restored buildings and, obviously, the library of the law department at the Gotham University.

“Local philanthrope donates a million dollar to charity!” reads local headline. If said charity is run by his family and is truly only used to get tax breaks, well, none is the wiser. That’s how it’s done! Build your popularity, bring prestige to the family name. Be beloved and well known in Gotham, but not popular enough as to, say, attract the wrong attention. Hand a fat check to the kids'ward at the Gotham general hospital in full view of the flashing cameras, and kiss the tiny bald head of the littlest cancer patient, without mentioning of course that said child only has cancer because you regularly turn a blind eye when factories dispose of toxic waste in the deserted outskirts of the city. You want to be lauded, hell, even discredited by the local paper, but you don’t want the family name on a national headline, where out of your jurisdiction no amount of money could smooth things over.

It's really not that complicated. Tons of people do it. 

Harvey was meant to bring prestige to the family name in the same way many wealthy Gothamites had done before him.

But here lies the fundamental crux of this whole issue: Harvey Dent didn’t give a fuck about his family name. Which, if you were to know his personal history, wouldn’t really surprise you that much.

Over the years said name had been kept out of police and medical reports with a truly admirable effort. No overqualified tutor had ever dared voicing their concerns past the offhand comment made to their colleagues over a shared cigarette. No house staff had ever thought of sharing what they knew was going on behind the polished doors of the Dent mansion. The thought never crossed their mind. To be fair to the poor help, they knew it wasn’t worth it. What good could have done, telling the world that Christopher Dent beat his only son to a pulp nearly every day?

It’s not unusual by any means. Children get hit in every kind of family. Even though, it must be said that dear old Christopher had perfected a method which I assume child-beaters all over the world envied him. He seemed like the sort of person that given the right audience, would undoubtedly brag about it.

Still, it’s nothing Harvey couldn’t have dealt with by becoming a functioning alcoholic and enjoying the lifestyle his birthright granted him like the rest of his peers.  
But alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Brilliant law student Harvey Dent soon became brilliant District Attorney Harvey Dent. The youngest ever in Gotham history, to be precise.  
You would expect someone with his upbringing to know on which side he ought to be. After all Gotham is full of parasites, feeding on the scraps, clawing at one another to get their share. They have to be kept in check. But since the beginning of his career DA Dent had shown his true colors.

Maybe the idiocy that afflicts the Bat of Gotham is contagious. The esteemed DA fights for Justice with a capital J. But the difference between the caped crusader and him is a crucial one: Harvey Dent is defenseless. The Gotham Elite dislikes him, and so does the Gotham Police Force. After all, he seems to be the only one wholly determined to hold them accountable. He knew what he was getting himself into. He must have known. But there he his, holding a substantial amount of power, and asking all the wrong questions. Bothering the wrong people, letting petty criminals get off easily, relentlessly pursuing the bigger fishes. And as previously stated, he must be made an example of.

Which is why his unconscious body is now being dumped on the steps of the Gotham City Courthouse. It flops gracelessly and lands with a dull crack of bones. Hopefully for poor Harvey it wasn’t his skull. Last thing he needs is a nasty concussion.

The van speeds off, the screeches of the tires alerting a night guard who upon descending the Courthouse steps will find the body of a man he has spoken to countless times. In that moment he won’t be able to recognize him. Only later, sitting in an interrogation room with Commissioner Jim Gordon he will be informed that that empty eye socket and melted skin, the teeth visible through the torn flesh of the cheek did indeed belong to District Attorney Harvey Dent.


	2. 240p

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lois enters the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! Let's see if we can do Lois Lane justice. 
> 
> Harvey's speech is inspired by this article: Call Climate Change What It Is: Violence, by Rebecca Solnit. 
> 
> I honestly only have the faintest idea of where this fic is going but I'm enjoying the ride, and if you wanna come along you're more than welcome. 
> 
> I should mention that my Harvey Dent looks like Oscar Isaac in "A most violent year". This look was inspired by a Tumblr post you can find here:  
> https://clarkkent.co.vu/post/164142045846/all-my-life-split-down-the-middle-sliced-in

"Mike, you asked me if I will solely dedicate myself to 'conflicts that make good headlines', in what I presume is a reference to the case the D.A.'s office is building against the Sionis industries. Many of your viewers are probably asking themselves the same thing, wondering when will I focus on violent crime, the one that is rampant to this day in Gotham's streets." Lois was watching the video intently, occasionally scribbling notes, her eyes red and sore from staring at a computer screen for so long. 

In the confined space of a dated YouTube video, Harvey Dent continued speaking: "You see Mike, I hold a very firm belief, that if you’re poor, the only way you’re likely to injure someone is the old traditional way: artisanal violence, we could call it – by hands, by knife, by club, or maybe modern hands-on violence, by gun or by car." Gotham's District attorney was speaking with confidence, his eyes never breaking contact with the interviewer's.

"But if you’re tremendously wealthy, like the Sionis family is, and hold a tremendous amount of power that has gone unchecked for a long time, you can practice industrial-scale violence without any manual labor on your own part. You can, say, build a sweatshop factory that will collapse in West Harlow, by the docks, and kill more people than any hands-on mass murderer ever did, or you can calculate risk and benefit of putting unsafe machines into that sweatshops, poisoning over time your workers, who will in turn have sick children"  
. He spoke with dignity, almost a proud defiance. even through the grainy video Lois coul feel his charm, could see how he could have made a difficult, dangerous opponent. Lois paused the video at that, interrupting Dent's smooth flow of speech to type a reminder on her phone. She would have to look at past cases of lead poisoning in Gorham's population in the neighbourhoods surrounding the industrial area and how the past administration had handled the situation, if Dent himself had been involved in any case when he was still only a prosecutor.

She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and pressed play. On the screen, Harvey Dent resumed talking: "Or, your business could be set up as a front for money laundering by local mobsters, your trucks used to dump toxic waste in the harbour: these actions have devastating consequences that last generations and make people lives' unbearable. And desperate people will resort to desperate means to improve their situation" His voice was more sure now, his gestures more animated: "It is no use to arrest the small time drug dealer, not when he is going to be replaced within the next day. As long as there are conditions that make people turn to a life of crime, there will be crime. Prosecuting those who use their power and wealth to rig the game in their favor is the only solution that will bring long term results." 

Lois groaned aloud, feeling bone tired, her eyes puffy and dry. The notes she had been making on her pad had stopped resembling anything remotely comprehensible around noon. She rested her weary head on the hand of her palm, greasy strands of hair escaping from the ancient scrunchie. She looked at the man on the screen, contemplating his face. There was no denying he was handsome. If she liked teasing Clark by comparing him to a sculpted greek god (much to his embarrassment) she had to admit that Harvey Dent also was what could be described as a "classical paragon of beauty". His jaw, his elegant nose, his dark brow and the defined black curls; they all seemed to belong to a bronze bust of a Roman senator. He probably wouldn't look out of place wearing a toga. 

At the beginning of his second term as Gotham District attorney Harvey Dent was making a name for himself. Not that he hadn't before, but now apparently he had enough status to put the Daily Planet in an uncomfortable position. He was notorious for avoiding the press, but  
after the Daily Planet had run the umpteenth article dedicated to Gotham's Crime wave, Dent himself spoke about the matter, to a Planet correspondent no less. 

"There is a bias against our city and its people in the media" he had said, speaking loudly into the microphone, trying to overcome the noise of a grey windy day "newspapers frame the city's current situation as a moral failing of the population, instead of focusing on the environmental and economic factors and what dictates them. It's the easy route, and I can understand why going deeper wouldn't be in the press' interest. There aren't many sound bites where socioeconomic analysis is concerned" When the poor freezing journalist had asked him if he was referring to the Daily Planet had simply lifted a sardonic eyebrows and said "If the shoe fits" and walked off. 

Perry had promptly (and predictably) lost it.

So that is why Pulitzer prize winner Lois Lane is currently still working at 3:14 in the morning, because a fuming Perry White had saddled her with writing an in depth profile of the man and his work as a prosecutor. Still, it would have been good to talk the party directly concerned. 

How was she gonna interview a man so elusive and with a notorious distrust for the press, she had no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! I'm honestly having fun doing this but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate constructive criticism, so drop me a comment if you'd like. Most of the high profile crimes in Gotham and the way Dent lives his life as a prosecutor will probably be inspired by real life events that happened in my country. Write what you know and all that jazz. The interview is inspired by the bonus scenes of the Dark Knight trilogy.


	3. Chi fa da sé

"He's not dead". The man's voice echoed across the room. No answer. "I told you I wanted him dead, Joker". Silence. Then a wheeze, an almost imperceptible sound. "You wanted him dead uh?" croaked a voice from the back of the warehouse, hidden in the shadows. "I don't recall this being about what YOU wanted, my dear Sal" said the Joker. He was leaning on a rotten crate, seeming pensive. He had a coin on the palm of his hand. He plucked it and held it in front of his eyes, the neon light making it shine between his gloved fingers.

A two headed coin. Huh. What an odd object. Every facet the same, no hidden side. No hidden motives. No lurking darkness. What you see is what you get. And no matter how many times you toss it, the outcome will always be the same. It will stay the same. Unless. Unless you force it to change. Unless you mold it to your preference. Unless you shape it back to what it always should have been. 

"I hired you to do a job Joker. And I paid you to complete said job. Handsomely. I told you I didn't care what you did to Harvey Dent as long as he ended up dead." Maroni said, his voice growing angrier "so now, you can imagine my surprise when I turned on the news this morning and I was informed that apparently he has been hospitalised, when by now he should have been sitting on the fucking freezing slab of a fucking morgue!!" he shouted, spit flying from his mouth. He was sweating, and a vein on his forehead kept pulsing in an almost hypnotic rhythm.

The Joker hadn't looked up from the coin. "Don't shout like that" he said, the glimmer of light coming from the coin shining on his cracked lips "You're gonna give yourself an heart attack". He abruptly tore his gaze from the coin and looked at the man standing in front of him. A sweaty, neurotic mess. So fixed on trivial little things like "death". Pathetic. He stood up slowly, nonchalantly dusting off his purple suit. "The way I see it Sal, you don't really have a choice in the matter, do you? I mean, you can't kill him yourself because his office is currently prosecuting you, and you can't have him killed without people immediately assuming it was you who gave the order" He was now walking slowly towards Maroni, tossing the coin in the air and catching it one handed. The tinning noise echoed in the empty vastness of the dark warehouse, unnerving Sal's men, who tightened their fingers around their guns. 

"So, it has to be me who deals with him, and I have to do it in MY way, so people won't suspect you and your inbred family did it" said the Joker, now staring Maroni directly in his beady, pig-like eyes "I'll be very clear Sal: the only reason I agreed to do this is because I already had plans for Gotham's white knight. In fact, I have been pondering how to deal with him for quite a long time" as he said this he bared his teeth in a snarl, his lips more similar to a festering wound. "A stool cannot stand on two legs, and he is the third leg that is holding up this city. He cannot simply be killed. That would make him a martyr. And in his name and everything he stood for his associates will tear you to shreds. He has to be... transformed." He can't be cut down, he thought. He has to rot from the inside. 

He walked back to the crate and took out of his front pocket a gleaming scalpel, twirling it between his fingers.

"Don't worry Sal!" he said, in his custom cheery demeanor. He placed the coin on the wooden surface and stared at the woman's delicate profile. Who was she supposed to be? He couldn't remember. Truth? Liberty? Justice? It didn't matter.  
He leaned over, holding the coin still, and with the blade slowly scratched a deep line over it, right across the woman's profile. 

"Harvey Dent will be dealt with".


	4. On a scale of one to ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our first look at Harvey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am no expert in the medical field, but I try and do my best when researching for the story. Content warning for injury description.

Is a disease still undiagnosed if you're the only one who knows you have it? Must be. A diagnosis implies a process, be it lengthy or brief. A diagnosis requires the involvement of a doctor. And it's not as bad as the TV makes it seem. A diagnosis might come as a relief for many. You can't understand the disease, if you don't even know what you have. But Harvey Dent knew what his diagnosis was. He had known from quite some time. And a diagnosis might not always be a death sentence, but in Dent's case it might as well have been.

𝘈 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘭 he had tried to convince himself over the years, during those sleepless nights, when he had felt the walls closing in, his manic state too much too handle. Sweating, frantically loosening his tie while pacing his darkened office 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳'𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘶𝘱𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘗𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. It woul draw too much attention. 

Over the years he had often regretted not being on medication. When the mood swings and pressure started to take a toll, and the only solution he had was raid his stash and indulge into a late night session of heavy drinking. He'd end up staring at the expensive bourbon bottle, squeezing its neck, hard, harder, feeling his knuckles crack, a bitter taste in his mouth, bile burning in his stomach. Maybe it was worse. Knowing you were sick and not taking steps to get better. You knew and you did nothing. In Harvey's case, his judgement affected other people in a way that, despite his best efforts, he could probably never fully comprehend.

But right now, laying in an hospital bed, he realized that in situations like this, it might have paid off 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 he thought 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘴. It also occurred to him that this way the risk of a leak of information regarding his mental state was very low. What an odd thought to have. You'd think that after being almost killed your first thoughts upon waking up would be of gratefulness. Confusion. Panic. Anguish. That's the weird thing about almost dying: it tends to focus your priorities. 

He was aware he was currently very heavily sedated. There was no other way to explain the absence of pain. He had thought the pain alone would kill him. 

He felt a sudden, almost violent urge to sob, but realized he couldn't move his mouth. He was biting on something, something shoved deep down his throat. How couldn't he have noticed before? A hoarse scream tore from his throat as he clawed his face, trying to get the thing off. He couldn't get a grip on it, his left hand was swatted with bandages and the whole left side of his face was too. 

The memory of what had happened came back to him so violently he jolted against the bed, whimpering, his breath chocked. 

He remembered the initial burn...then the pain. An undescribable pain. He had always thought that he could have never in a million years endured that kind of pain. He would have certainly fainted. But he didn't pass out. Not at first. He was awake for long enough, enough for the sour smell to hit his nostrils, conscious enough to feel the acid eat through his flesh, the skin of his cheek tearing like wet paper exposing his gums...his eye. He reached up with his good hand. He couldn't stop shaking. 𝘋𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮 𝘛𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘴 his brain supplied. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘕𝘰, he thought. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. It occurred to him that he was terrified. That sobered him somehow, and still struggling to breathe with a tube down his throat, he gently placed his hand on the bandaged side of his face. He felt delicately with his fingers along the ridges of the bandages, and felt tears spill from his right eye. His only eye. 

He had felt his eyeball cave in. That was the most vivid memory. His eye had liquefied into its socket and while it was happening he had realized that what he was smelling was his own flesh melting off his skull. 

He pulled on the bandages, trying to take them off, to see, but a nurse suddenly appeared to his side, holding him down, soothing him, while another one got to work to extubate him. When the tube finally slid out he tried to scream, but couldn't. He was too weak. 

He was shaking, his hands trying to rip off the bandages, he had to see, don't you understand he screamed, he had to see what they did to him. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 he thought desperately, 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 but before he could do anything else he was being sedated again. Struggling to keep awake he frantically looked around him, expecting to find bared teeth and sallow skin, but the last thing he saw before passing out was the soft pale blue of the nurse's scrubs, and then nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still relatively new to the DC fandom, so any comment or criticism is appreciated. I like writing this story, but up until now it feels like I'm broadcasting a radio signal and no one is answering. I would really love some feedback!


	5. Tritolo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're staying with Harvey a bit more, trying to get a glimpse of what kind of person he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this thing in the notes' app, which feels very unprofessional, but since no one is paying me to write I guess it doesn't really matter.

1971\. Pietro Scaglione, Chief Prosecutor of Palermo. Shot in the street like a dog. Both him and his driver, by order of Luciano Leggio, head of the Corleonesi clan. 1980, happens again to Gaetano Costa. 6 shots fired in the back. He bled to death on the sidewalk, alone. It would later be said of him that he was a man "of whom only death could be bought". 

July 19, 1992. Via d'Amelio Bombing. 220 pounds of TNT. 6 dead. 

Black and white photographs flashed before his eyes. Windshields drilled with bullet holes. Glass shards stuck in hair matted with blood. It was all so dark, the old archive pictures oversaturated. Sometimes you could barely tell apart the body from the asphalt. 

14 prosecutors killed in the US over the last century. There's a memorial at the University of South Carolina. Across the world the M.O. is roughly always the same. Shot or blown up. 

Harvey laid there in his hospital bed, wondering, if presented with the choice, which one he would pick. Had he died from his injuries, would they even have been able to identify his body? Gordon probably could have done it. He often caught him staring while he was listening to a witness, interrogating a suspect or silently taking notes. Not that he was ever subtle about it. It suddenly occured him that the reason he probably did it was because he was always looking for the telltale signs of when someone is being dishonest. Or teetering on the verge of mental breakdown. Commissioner Jim Gordon had always disliked him, but it never occurred to him that it might have been because he had realized that he wasn't just the average moody asshole with a drinking problem. Which is a description that coincidentally also applies to the commissioner himself. To the majority of the police force, if he had to be honest. He wondered if Gordon would come visit him. Visitors still had no access to his room, due the greater risk of infection his exposed flesh posed. He tried to imagine the rough, shabby looking commissioner holding a bouquet of flowers. Or maybe a "Get well soon!" helium balloon, neon pink with yellow letters. But when Gordon came, two days after he woke up, he was holding neither. 

"The nurse tells me I'm the first" he said as he lowered himself on the plastic chair next to his bed "to visit you, I mean". Harvey didn't speak. He looked at the middle aged father sitting before him, the harsh neon light not doing much for his already worn features and greying hair. When the attack had happened he didn't have his wallet with him, so the man that had been brought to Gotham General was just another John Doe. Only when his housekeeper reported him missing the next day the police had connected the dots. Still, the fact that he had been dropped on the steps of the courthouse should have been a clue. 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘢. A warning. More probably an ultimatum. Gordon thought so too. He seemed at loss of words when trying to comfort him, so he just limited himself to reporting the facts, telling him of the apparent lack of involvement from the Maroni family.

Harvey barely spoke, nodding along when he could. "Gordon" he croaked as the man was leaving "thank you". Jim nodded, looking at the ground, seeming pensive. Harvey saw a great sadness in his eyes, something that he could not explain. Something that maybe went beyond what had happened to him. How many nights had Jim Gordon spent in an ICU, waiting for his daughter to get better? "Get some rest Harvey" he said, without looking up. And with that he was out of the door. 

There had been no promises of justice, no "I swear to you we'll catch whoever did this", no passionate speeches made while squeezing his hand. Just quiet words from a man who seemed tired and most of all resigned. Maybe Gordon had seen it coming. Hell, Harvey had seen it coming. He was no stranger to death treats, to bullets in anonymous envelopes. His office had even been gifted with a pig's head in the mail once. But acid? 

20 percent of his body had suffered from critical chemical burns. The whole left half of his face, scalp included. The juncture of his neck and shoulder, where the skin is most tender, expanding down on his collarbone and chest. Almost as if the acid had cascaded from his jaw down his body. His left hand. His left eye was gone, and so most of his left ear. 

According to the doctors it would most likely take months for the burns to completely heal. And even then there were talks about reconstructive surgery, and the eventuality of wearing an eye prosthetic. 

He learned that he had been unconscious for two days, and that after being brought to Gotham General for immediate care, he was transferred to a specialist burn unit.

He still hadn't seen the extent of the damage. After that first desperate attempt, he realized that he lacked the strength to look in the mirror. What good would have done? He felt it. He felt the ruin of his face. He couldn't blink. He couldn't move his mouth without feeling excruciating pain. He was being fed through an IV drip, after so many days the crook of his elbow mottled with yellowish bruises. He suddenly felt tired, tired to his bones. A deep ache filled him, and the more he thought about his situation, the more desperate he felt. He wondered if the alcohol withdrawal had finally caught up with him, or if in his endless luck he had managed to be viciously attacked during one of his depressive episodes. He couldn't tell, the meds made him too dizzy. 

In the few moments of clarity he couldn't stop thinking about the others that had died before him. Either by bullet or explosives. Then why acid. Why. Was he meant to die? Or was this just a warning? A reminder that it could have been his corpse to get consumed by acid, not just his face. 

He must have passed out cold again, because when he woke up it was dark and the only light came from the corridor. He balanced himself on his elbows, looking around for the plastic water cup. It had a straw in it to help him drink. The first time he saw it he was overcome with the childish urge to ask the nurse if they had any striped ones. Blue and white or red and pink, like the ones that go with lemonade. It occurred to him that the thought of a colourful plastic straw was the only thing keeping him afloat. Jesus Christ.

He reached for the plain cup and slowly tried to fit the straw into his mouth, in a way that wouldn't hurt his damaged side. He managed to drink a bit, but it was of no relief. He sighed and turned to put the plastic cup back on the nightstand and that's when he noticed a shadow on the wall. It was a men's silhouette, probably one of the nurses working a night shift. It was still as a statue. 

Harvey forze. He couldn't tear his eyes away. He wondered if whoever that shadow belonged to was staring at him from the neon lit corridor. He felt a chill down his spine. The muscles of his back hurt, his breath was harsh. 

The shadow moved along the wall and Harvey choked down a sob as he heard the knob turning, then the soft "click" of the door closing. It was so loud. He thought of that story, of the man buried alive. He couldn't remember the name nor the author. He wondered if the sound of the last brick being slid into place had the same effect on the poor Fortunato. 

He didn't look away from the wall. He heard the steps on the pristine linoleum floor and felt his presence next to him. He was shaking now, crying. He had come to finish the job. He felt his muffled breath: he probably had worn a surgical mask to blend in. To cover those teeth. 

Harvey Dent would meet his end in an hospital bed. But before he could utter a sound, before he could scream, he saw a gloved white hand reach toward the bedstand. It almost shone in the dark At first glance what could be mistaken for a surgical glove, but up close there was no doubt that was fine white fabric. The almost lithe hand placed something on the nightstand with startling gentleness, and then it was gone. Harvey heard the door open and shut again. 

He leat out a ragged breath and squeezed his eye shut. He didn't want to look at it. Whatever it was he didn't want to look at it.  
But he knew what it was. There where only a few things in his pockets that cursed night, and only one of them was missing from his personal belongings. 

He opened his eye. Shining on the bedstand was his double headed coin.  
He was sobbing now. He felt feverish, and he brought his good hand to his mouth. "No" he moaned "no, no, no..."

He sucked in a wet breath and reached for the coin. He wished he could grip the sheets to ground himself, but the bandages where in the way. He took it. He settled on the bed, back against the pillow and stared at it. He was shaking so hard, his hand sweaty, that the coin slipped from his finger, and landed on the sheets without making a sound. 

The other side of the coin was staring at him, four deep gashes embedded across the woman's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit it's probably odd to make the Joker a non-entity, since he is well known for his love for teathrics, but I find him more frightened this way, as a presence in the back of your mind. Still, I appreciate criticism from those who are more well read than me when it comes DC so let the comments flow!


	6. Neon lights and hand sanitizer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Gordon is tired, and Bruce Wayne offers little comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a new chapter! And I didn't even write it in the notes app! The Bat makes his first appereance, and it's all downhill from here. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!

“How is he?”

Jim didn’t startle, because after almost 15 years of voices addressing you from the shadows, you got used to it. He walked up to the hand sanitizer dispenser, pressing the button and wringing is hands methodically. He didn’t look up. Even if he had the man sitting in one of the nearby plastic chairs would have been nothing but a stranger to him. If Bruce decided he didn’t want to be recognized, then there was no point in even trying.

“How did you manage to get in?” said Gordon, loosening his tie, “did you say you were family?” “I have my methods” replied Bruce. Jim wondered if he was here as Bruce or Batman. Maybe both. He knew from experience that when it comes to cases like this, you couldn’t separate the two, no matter how hard you tried. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth, thinking of nights spent in hospital corridors, with Bruce by his side. “You probably could have. Said you were family, I mean. You do look…alike” Alike wasn’t the right word, not really. Not when it came to resemblance anyway. But sometimes, during all those years working together, Jim would find himself thinking that Bruce and Harvey might as well have been the same person. They were, for lack of better words, cut from the same cloth. And over time, they had ended up becoming the same man. There was pain, embedded deep inside both, that drove them, relentlessly, in their fight for justice. He had always known that sooner or later this fight would have consumed them. He just didn’t think Harvey would be first.

“The doctors say they have never seen anything like it. And I’m not just talking about the chemical composition of the acid.” Bruce was still as a statue, not looking up from the faded linoleum floor “They’re used to deal with a different kind of injury. Freak accidents or, worst case scenario, a swift attack that's over in a matter of seconds” He thought of Harvey, lying in the hospital bed, too weak to move, too weak to breathe. One of finest orator this city had ever seen, barely able to speak.

“He was tortured” Gordon finally said, and just saying the word left him drained. He took off his glasses and scrubbed his face, smelling the faint odor of disenfectant on his fingers. Bruce didn’t look up. “probably for hours. The head doctor says the use of the acid could almost be described as “methodical”. Half of his face has sustained third degree burns. His left ear is gone, and so is his left eye. The damage is so severe the doctors think even talking about an eye prosthesis might be futile. The reconstructive surgery he’d have to undergo would be massive and even then there’s no guarantee the results would make any difference. Right now all they can do is give him painkillers and fight off any possible infection. His body is under constant strain, he has to be closely monitored at all times.” 

Bruce still hadn’t looked up. 

Gordon sighed, lifting his glassed and examining the smudged lens in the harsh neon lights.

“We both know who did this” he said. Was it always going to be this way? His family, his friends, his colleagues, being decimated one by one by a monster who just wanted to prove a point? “Maybe.” replied Bruce after a second. Jim never forgot how much he had lost too. The price he had paid. “What we have to focus on right now, is who is behind it. The Prosecutor office has been building a case against Maroni for months now. Maybe this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. If Maroni put out the hit, and things went his way, Harvey would be in a ditch right now.” Gordon just looked at him. As far as he knew, Harvey and Bruce had grown up together. Brothers in everything but blood. He wondered if that was still the case. 

He put his glasses back on and straightened his coat. “We’re treating this as an attempted murder. I have two men outside the ward, the hospital won’t let them any closer for risk of contamination.” Bruce nodded, and stood up, the dingy plastic chair creaking.  
“You should go see him” said Gordon. “Right now you’re probably one of the only people in the world that knows exactly what it’s like to be in his position” 

Bruce didn’t reply.

So Gordon left, leaving Bruce Wayne alone in a harshly lit corridor of the Gotham General Burn Unit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is gonna focus on Bruce and Harvey's relationship through the years, and where they stand right now. Comments are greatly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> The attention the Joker movie has gotten made me realize that (at least in the mainstream area) very few Batman villains are allowed to be seen as human, or even earn their redemption. If most of them are locked away in Arkham Asylum, why do so very few of them get better? It's probaby because Hugo Strange is a dick and the prison system sucks BUT STILL. I love Harvey as a character and I want to give him a shot. This is my first fic and I'm writing it because I need some creative outlet, but feel free to give me some well deserved crticism. As stated in the tags, English is not my first language, so I appreciate any corrections. Let's see where this goes.


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